


If You'd Just Lay Down Your Tracks

by dynamicsymmetry



Series: Sugar and Spice [2]
Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Awkwardness, Cunnilingus, Demisexuality, F/M, Kissing, Masturbation, Season/Series 04, Sexual Fantasy, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-04
Updated: 2017-03-04
Packaged: 2018-09-28 05:00:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10072988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dynamicsymmetry/pseuds/dynamicsymmetry
Summary: Daryl Dixon never got kissing. Never got making out. Never got... Well, never got a whole lot of things. Until Beth Greene shoved him up against a wall and did some educating.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is the second part in what's apparently now a series that began this past August with [I Will Be Your Honey Bee.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7869499) At the time people were crowing for more in the universe and I was like okay maybe and put the idea on the backburner. 
> 
> Then I had an incredibly shitty mental health week and was like fuck it. 
> 
> This is set prior to the events of the first fic. I don't anticipate this particular series being much more than something I poke at from time to time. That said, I have some ideas for where it might go, and things frequently get away from me, so we'll see.
> 
> By the way, those of you who have read I'll Be Yours For a Song will know that I said my goodbye to that specific Daryl and I don't expect to ever see him again, but it's fun when now and then bits of him show up anyway.
> 
> Thanks for reading. ❤️

He doesn't remember the first time he kissed someone.

Even at the time - or rather, _after,_ because the whole point is that he has no recollection of _at the time_ \- he thought it was weird. Thought _he_ was weird, which wasn't a new thought so much as yet more confirmation of what he already knew. But still. That's something you're supposed to remember, your first kiss. Even some white trash piece-of-shit, even some redneck asshole should probably remember that milestone. Not that it would be anyone's idea of _romantic,_ but it should still be _something._

He doesn't remember. Has no idea who it was. Can't recall the setting, the context, the person, the music (if any), the lighting (if any), the spectators (if any, and please god let there not have been any even if he can't remember them), the smell or the taste of whoever it was. 

Can't remember if he liked it. Can't remember whether or not they seemed to. 

It's possible that this blank place in his memory where there should be something is blank because he was drunk. There are a lot of blank places in his personal records for that reason, and he started getting drunk pretty young by the standards of most normal people. Was fifteen when he blacked out for the first time. Fourteen when he first got a hangover so bad he vomited up anything that hit his stomach including water. 

So maybe he was just that drunk. If he was, he doubts the other person enjoyed it. Certainly doubts that he did, and in the very few occasions he's done it since then, he didn't particularly enjoy it then either, and never got the sense that the party of the second part was having an especially good time. 

And prior to whenever and whoever it was, he has no recollection of ever wanting to. Because the thing is, kissing is bizarre. It's the oddest fucking practice. He can't fathom it, why anyone would actually _want_ to do that, would do it not only voluntarily but _enthusiastically,_ with someone they _like._ The mechanics of it make no sense, pleasure-wise. Putting your mouth on someone else’s. Opening it. Mashing your lips against theirs, sticking your tongue in their mouth, letting them stick theirs in yours. The wet, smacking, slurping noises. Potential for the collision of teeth and noses. Whether to keep your eyes open or closed. Whether or not your breath is bad and they're just too polite to say anything about it. Whether or not you do it badly and how you would even know what _badly_ consists of.

Christ, it's just so fucking weird, and he doesn't doubt that people enjoy it because people whose preferences he trusts seem to do so, but _why._

Or that's how he used to think. Not even that long ago. Was baffled by kissing, and in fact he's still baffled, and baffled even more by the fact that now, every single day of his life now, every single chance he gets, kissing Beth Greene is his favorite thing in the world. 

And he's pretty sure she doesn't hate it either. 

~ 

First time, with her - _does_ remember that. Holy shit, yes. He'd be lying if he said he saw it coming, except when she did it, deep down, he actually wasn't stunned. A tiny voice that didn't sound like his mother or father or Merle or anyone else who talks to him semi-regularly murmuring _Aha, yes, here it is,_ all those days finding himself with her and near her and in closer and closer proximity, bemused by the tricks chance was pulling and all the time wondering in the back of his head if it really was only chance or if something else was going on. 

With her and liking it. She's just nice to be around. She makes him feel nice. She's nice to look at. Was always true but he didn't genuinely _notice._

Nice to touch. Few times it happened, she didn't make that finely twitchy webwork of nerves under his skin jump. Or maybe a little, but not the way it normally does when his skin comes into contact with skin belonging to someone else. Nice to touch and he didn't mind when it happened again, and again, and totally by accident, you know, but still. 

And then she was pushing him up against the wall in the dusk, all shadow, couldn't even see her face clearly so it didn't matter if his eyes were closed or not. Except her mouth on his, first few seconds before his eyes fluttered closed, and he saw hers glittering. Dancing as the light hit them. Her lips pressing his gently apart, flicker of her tongue past his teeth, and he could feel her smile. Mischievous. 

Getting something she wanted from him, and when she lifted herself up on her toes and sighed and combed her slender fingers into his hair, and pulled him down harder, he didn't mind giving. Not one fucking bit.

Because kissing is weird, and maybe it always will be. But with her, he remembers. He remembers all these times now, each one, lying alone in the dark of his cell and thinking about Beth Greene’s soft mouth, her plump lips, how he can make her moan when he sucks at her. Licks at her, slides his tongue against hers. Her warm little body pressed all up and down his, how his hands seem to fit so perfectly around the curve of her slim waist, the swell of her hips, holding her there. Sometimes being the one to do the pushing. Dangerously close to pinning her. He's getting bolder, as he gathers more and more evidence that strongly suggests that she likes what he's doing with her. _To_ her. 

Getting bolder, as she presses in, hands fisted in his shirt or clutching his biceps and shoulders, or her arms curled around his neck. How close she is, the way she's moving. This is crazy and he still doesn't get it at all, but thinking about where his hands are and then thinking about where they might go, these other parts of her body, some in plain view but others hidden and secret, that it's even possible that she might _want_ his hands there, and he can't get further than that, turning away with his face burning and his fingers trembling right down to their tips. 

Merle always utterly despaired of him, for this reason among so many others. 

These are places he's been, most of them. Things he's done. But it was never like this. Everything is different. The whole shape of things has been altered. Every assumption he ever had about any of this and his relationship to all of it has been hurled - by her - out the fucking window. It still makes no sense. He still has no idea what to do with any of it. Still doesn't get how or why it works. Doesn't get why he likes it so much, when he never did before. 

But she's wonderful. She’s wondrous. He thinks he could probably live decades past the age he should and never forget one breathless second of that first time. 

And all the times since then, sure. But as it turns out, even if it takes additional decades before it happens, the first time really is something. 

~ 

He doesn't remember the first time he jerked off. 

This isn't on the same order as kissing. First and most obviously it's because no one other than him was involved. But also it’s because while he doesn't remember details - when, where, how, exactly how old he was, exactly what he was thinking about, what precipitated it to begin with - he does remember how he felt. That record is badly incomplete and exists only in flashes like an old movie reel spliced back together with a lot of it missing, but it's there. Primarily he remembers that he was confused. Confused and a little scared, and then a _lot_ scared, knowing on some level - from a hundred crude euphemisms and hand gestures and bad, mean jokes - what was happening, what he was doing to himself, and mostly just scared that someone would catch him and mocking or even some kind of punishment would follow, but also scared because he was losing control, it was careening away from him with every pulse of pleasure, and he didn't know how to make it stop. 

So he didn't stop. And he does remember that he didn't get caught. And he does remember breathing hard, staring down at the sticky, pale semi-translucent streaks on his hand, and - Christ knows why - thinking _what the fuck do I do now?_

From all this information, fragmentary though it is, he can conclude that he was probably quite young. 

Thing is, it never made a lot more sense to him after that. So for the most part it simply didn't happen all that much. 

It _didn't_. Before. 

But here comes Beth Greene, and she has this terrible, wonderful way of changing everything. 

~ 

Lying in his bunk at night, alone and in the dark, listening to the sleeping block all around him, thinking about her mouth. Her lips, her tongue, so warm and soft and wet, that indescribable way she tastes. Vibration of her moan, passing from her throat and into his, and his stomach doing not-entirely-comfortable somersaults at the fact that he can make her make those sounds. Fear that he's fucking up, knowing that he's not. Inconceivable that he's not. He gathers that she's had significantly more experience than him regardless of the fact that she's something like half his age. Two boyfriends that he knows of, probably more than that, and she seems so confident. She seems to know exactly what she wants. 

What does _he_ want?

He wants whatever she wants. Shit, he doesn't know how to want anything else. Doesn't know how he would get that far in his bewildered imagination. Everything she does is delightful, and he doesn't need to understand it. He's making a lot of progress in the internalization of that fact, not least in terms of recognizing that it's a fact in the first place. 

Lying in his bunk at night, alone and in the dark, thinking about her mouth. He thinks about her mouth a lot these days. This has been going on for a couple of weeks now, and maybe he should be bored with it, but he's not. God, he's so not. Tomorrow he might get to do it again, if they can find the time and the space and a few priceless moments to themselves. And even if they don't, he has his memories, so richly vivid now, clear enough to cut the air: her mouth arching against his and his fingers tangled in her hair, palms cupping her jaw, the way he can suck gently on her tongue and then go on a leisurely tour of the ridges of her teeth, taking the time to appreciate each point and bump. A few of them are crooked and he loves that and he hasn't the faintest clue why. 

He loves them like he loves the tiny scatter of acne scars under her right ear, like he loves the way her left eye is set almost imperceptibly higher than her other, like he loves the asymmetry of her smile. Her imperfections are glorious. 

They're not even imperfections. They're simply more for him to remember. More information to collect and put lovingly away until he wants to retrieve it. 

Jesus fucking Christ, what is _happening to him._

Merle would probably say that _this cute little bitch has him wrapped all the way around her finger,_ and Merle would be one hundred and ten percent right, and that's absolutely fine. 

Quiet block. Breathing. Her mouth. The heat of her, how he can push into her. Be inside her and she lets him in, _invites_ him. Never thought about it like that before, actually, but yes: he's inside her when he does that, past the boundaries that mark where the world ends and her body begins. Those normally uncrossable borders, and beyond them lies territory that's an utter mystery to him. But this entrance is one he's getting to know very well, getting comfortable with, so if he decided he wanted to take a few steps farther… 

His hands on her waist and her hips, the way her body quivers when it's pressed against his, the way he's caught himself quivering right back, and his own hand working its way down his lower belly, fingers nosing under the elastic of his shorts. 

Doesn't remember the first time he jerked off. Doesn't remember the first time he got hard, either, but he sure as shit is now. 

His eyes snap open and he stares at the shadowy void that is the ceiling. He was scared that first time; it's easy to imagine that fear back into place, that loss of control. He's never gotten hard when he's with her, was aware on some level that someone else probably would have but hey, he's a freak, that's always been true, whatever. Good thing, really, because as far as he's concerned he was already as out of control as he was okay with. But now his body doesn't seem to give a fuck what he's _okay with_ , because he can feel the blood rushing between his legs, flooding into his cock and making it swell. A dull pounding somewhere past the root, and it translates into a deep, steady buzz all through this purely utilitarian _thing_ he uses solely to piss with, hasn't been good for much else in basically… 

That might as well have been another life, for everything that's been remade. 

It's not just scary. It's terrifying. Spreading his legs slightly and making his creeping way over his coarse pubic hair, dragging in a shuddering breath, and realizing - for what he understands is the first time, yet another _first time_ \- just how much there is that he doesn't know. 

What he loves about her mouth. Her suckable lips, the slickness of her, the way she opens to him, the way she shivers and whimpers when he licks into her, and his hips twitch so sharply it's almost violent as he curls his hand around his shaft and squeezes. 

All those times before when his mind has ventured toward those hidden parts of her, he's turned away, flushed and the smallest bit ashamed. But she's deliciously warm and wet in one part of her, and he's not totally that confused little boy with his dick in his hand; he knows what he's been turning away from. If he lowered one hand from her hip, slid it between them. Careful. If she might open for him there too. A single stroke from base to head and precome smears the edge of his thumb and he moans, bites it back, and _fuck_ it's good. And he's burning, but he imagines she would be too, if she was like him, like he is now: on her back, all spread wide for him, and he could turn over on his belly and crawl to her, lay a hand on her silky inner thigh and _look_ at her. If she would let him. 

He actually thinks it's remotely possible that she might. 

Didn't get kissing. Jerking off was confusing and unsettling. And _this_ is something that before now was utterly alien, unutterably strange, and he understood the mechanics of why it might feel good, but thinking about it as a real thing, thinking about it as something that, in any possible scenario, he might _want to do,_ and he's jerking his hand in a rough, steady rhythm up and down his cock and humping his hips against an imaginary floor as he leans in to graze his lips over the glistening pink folds of Beth Greene’s pussy. 

Yeah, he would want to do this. If, by some ineffable miracle, he ever got the chance. 

Like her mouth, warm and wet. How she might react to him licking her, all the different ways he might be able to do that for her, just like there are so many ways - more than he ever would have believed - of manipulating her lips and tongue with his own. Whether she might like it if he sucked her, what it might do to her if - it's not like he's had extensive experience, but he knows what the hell a _clit_ is and where to find it, and what it might do to her if he focused on that for a while, tried out everything else he was trying on it alone. 

Somewhat fanciful: if he sucked that too. If he could make it swell like his cock does. 

The rhythm he's found has increased in speed, in roughness, and distantly he hears the dull wet smacking sounds his hand is making, slippery with his precome, his back arching and his teeth bared. Braced up on his elbows with his hands on her thighs and his face buried in her cunt, comprehending finally why they call it _eating her out_ because he would. He would fucking _devour_ her. When he's kissed her, her spit has mingled with his and he's swallowed her down and accepted the strangeness of that, and he would swallow whatever she gave him here, gulp down her juices and try to coax more from her, push his tongue between her labia and lap it out of her like a cat. He would drink her up if she gave him enough to drink, and he would make those slurping noises he once found so odd and so vaguely distasteful ring off the walls. 

God, please. _Please, please God_ let him have this someday. He'd kiss her forever and be more than content with that, he would be overjoyed, but please God someday let him be blessed enough to _lick her goddamn pussy until she comes all over his face._

A brittle snap at the base of his spine and then coming in thick, hot spurts all over his fist and belly, his groan trapped behind his teeth as his legs go rigid and twist in the sheet and his heels thump the thin mattress. 

Burning and burning for her and not turning away. 

Breathing hard, shuddering for a while. Then, as it fades, lifting his hand and staring at his sticky fingers, the faint gleam in the dimness. Not scared. Not confused. 

He doesn't know exactly what's happening to him. But he knows enough. 

He's still trembling as he wipes his hand off on his shorts, tucks his softening cock back in. That buzz that was confined between his legs has seeped into that webwork of nerves and he feels loose and quiet and pleasantly sleepy. If there's no fear or confusion, there's also no shame, and he rolls onto his side and shifts the pillow more comfortably under his head. Closes his eyes.

There's a lot he doesn't remember. There's a lot he doesn't _want_ to remember. But now, with her, that's changed too. Now he wants to remember everything. Including this. 

Until - maybe - she permits him to replace it with the real thing.


End file.
